by David Wind
“It will work.”
“Will it, Arnie? Or is our vision of Entente a fantasy we dreamed up in Nam?”
“A fantasy for what?”
“Revenge.”
Chapter Six
Steven pulled off the side of the road. He stared at the lake. The sky was cloudless. A myriad of stars sparkled in the black heavens. The three-quarter moon shone brightly; its light shimmered iridescently on the icy lake.
Logically, he knew he shouldn’t be here. But he’d had no choice. Shortly after Savak had pleaded fatigue, and gone to bed, he felt an urgent need to drive to the lake where Ellie had almost died.
Why? he asked himself. To look for a clue to Ellie’s assailant? He shook off the thought. If there had been anything of significance, Banacek would have found it.
Nor did he doubt the FBI agents had searched the area as thoroughly as had Banacek. Yet his need to be here was too strong a force to ignore.
Leaving the ignition on, Steven stepped out of the Bronco. He stood in the cold night air, wondering where to start and what to look for. Finally, he walked toward the embankment.
When he reached the edge of the road, he looked down toward the lake to where the car had gone in. The moonlight illuminated the rippling water in the jagged hole. Even from a distance of thirty feet, Steven could see small pieces of ice forming on the water’s surface. Soon, the hole would disappear.
Steven walked toward the water’s edge. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he searched the ground around him. He studied the curving tire tracks that Banacek had told him about, and was able to understand Banacek’s observations of the accident.
When he reached the bank, and saw the deep gouges on the thick roots of the old tree, Steven’s anger at what had happened to Ellie returned.
After staring into the dark water, he walked back to the road and leaned against the Bronco. He tried to build a scenario of the previous night, but could not.
He looked from where he stood down to the lake, following the tracks of the car. Ellie should have been in the car, not in the water. What did that signify?
“She was conscious,” he told the trees, knowing she’d tried to get away from whomever did this. It was the only logical explanation. If she’d been unconscious, she would have been in the car when it went into the lake.
He moved toward the curve in the road, when he glanced at the tall pines across from him. They stood like giants, guarding the gates of a dark sanctuary.
He stared at the trees. If he was right, if Ellie had been trying to escape, he knew she would have tried to go into the pines, to the refuge of darkness offered by the copse of trees.
He crossed the blacktop, walked toward the curve, focusing on the old hard snow, and looked for footprints while knowing that the possibility was slim.
He stopped dead a hundred feet later. There was a single footprint. It was deep, showing that all of the person’s weight was on that foot. Someone running heavily would make that deep an impression.
The shoeprint was small and narrow. Ellie’s feet were small and narrow. Steven knelt by the print. He looked farther on, but saw no other prints.
He knew this spot was where her torturer caught her. This the spot was where her fate had been sealed.
He stared at the thick pines. His stomach knotted. His hands curled into tight fists.
She had been five feet from safety. Five feet too far.
<><><>
To the uninitiated denizens of Washington, the nondescript government building situated on Pennsylvania Avenue appeared deserted. The workers and administrators who populated the building for up to eighteen hours a day had gone home.
All of the building’s entrances were locked and alarmed, except for two: The front entrance, with two security guards on duty, and a little known doorway that opened into a basement room from a tunnel running thirty-nine feet beneath Pennsylvania Avenue. The tunnel and the door leading from it were hooked up to a separate security system. Both the entrance to the tunnel and the exit were guarded by veteran combat Marines. The doors were four-inch carborundum steel, sealed with airtight gaskets, and locked with an intricate series of computer relay devices.
Despite the building’s deserted appearance, and without the main entrance security guard’s knowledge, six men were inside the building. Three of those men sat in a large windowless and soundproofed office.
A fourth man sat at a desk in the outer office, attentive not to what was happening behind the closed door, but to any eventuality that might occur in the hallway. A clear plastic receiver was in his left ear. On the desk, near his right hand, was a nine-millimeter pistol. A clip holding nine rounds of parabellum ammunition was in place. Beneath the man’s blue pin stripe suit was the most advanced form of body armor available in today’s world. He wore the vest not selfishly, but to stay alive long enough to protect one, if not all, of the men in the office.
A small black box, with green glowing lights and a curved increment gauge, sat in the center of the desk. The electronic sweeper would detect hidden bugs or recorders within two hundred feet. There were none.
Two more men stood in the hallway. One was near the center stairwell; the other was in place by the elevators. These men, like the solitary man at the desk, carried modified nine-millimeter weapons.
In the soundproof inner office, tension, like the ozone crispness preceding a thunderstorm, charged the air. Two men sat on a brass-trimmed leather couch. The third man sat behind a large oak desk, his features wreathed with lines of age and worry, gazed pensively at the men across from him. “You’re absolutely certain it’s no one on my staff?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man seated on the left side of the couch. “I no longer see any need to conduct our meetings here. We’ve also narrowed the suspects to a certain few.”
“And those are?”
The man, a green-eyed grandfather with a round face, cradled the bowl of a meerschaum pipe between thumb and forefinger. Julius Axelrod, while in fact the grandfather he appeared to be, was the director of the United States Secret Service.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Axelrod said, “but I don’t believe you should have that information. It could prove detrimental to your office if things don’t go as planned.”
The President shook his head, exhaling sibilantly. “Does anything really go as planned? No, this time, old friend, I must overrule your wishes. I want to know who is trying to make this country impotent.”
Axelrod exchanged glances with the third man in the office. General Amos Coblehill, USMC retired—tall, lean, bald and sixty, with critical eyes and a caustic wit, was the current director of the National Security Agency.
“Very well, Mr. President,” Axelrod said, thoughtfully tapping the black stem of the meerschaum on his other wrist. “We’re within ninety-percent probability that the leak is coming from Senator Philip Pritman’s office. It’s either Pritman himself—”
“Impossible,” the President interjected. “I’ve known Philip Pritman for almost twenty years. We may not see eye to eye philosophically or politically, but he’s no traitor.”
“God only knows what happens to people, sir,” Coblehill stepped in, taking the onus off Axelrod. “However, both our agencies have independently reached the same conclusion. The information is either originating from the senator, or from a member of his staff.”
“How is it even possible for Pritman to become privy to this sort of information?”
Axelrod slipped the now cool pipe into his jacket pocket. “It’s not hard, sir. There are ways. It could be someone within the bureaucracy; or, logical assumptions from unguarded conversations. Christ, Pritman’s on more committees dealing with foreign relations and intelligence than a Washington hooker has clients. All it really takes to put together the bits and pieces of information Pritman comes away with from those meetings is a world class political strategist.”
“And,” Amos Coblehill added, “Pritman wouldn’t even know he was giving up vital in
formation. All it would take is a discussion with an aide after an intelligence session. And the man keeps prodigious notes. They’re in a locked file he believes is secure. We know better.”
“Do you both still believe it’s tied into that Entente nonsense you learned about?” the President asked, fixing his gaze on Axelrod.
“It seems to be, Mr. President,” Coblehill answered for them.
“Stupid. We can’t move overtly against them. Everyone knows it’s only a matter of weeks before Pritman announces his candidacy. Any actions we take will be construed as a political ruse to discredit Pritman. The minute anyone gets scent of it, Pritman will announce.”
The president pressed weary forefingers to his temples. “All right, take whatever steps are necessary to find out who the leak is. But it must be done quietly and it had damn well better be discreet.”
“We understand, sir. We’ve anticipated your needs and taken additional measures to watch Pritman’s staff people. However, we can’t do the same with Pritman, too chancy for obvious reasons. Something will turn up soon, indicating who it is. Especially with this latest business in Pennsylvania. Sloppy work,” Axelrod added with a shake of his head.
“How can anyone high on Pritman’s staff be a mole? How is it possible?”
“It’s happened too many times before.” Axelrod’s voice was a flat and unemotional statement of a fact, which everyone knew but no one wanted to admit.
“I still think we should have Mulvaney check with his sources in Moscow,” Coblehill advised.
“No CIA involvement…not while they’re being put through the ringer with that goddamn Central American investigation. Neither can we risk letting the Soviets know we’re on to them. Julius, you were the one who brought that bugaboo up,” he reminded Axelrod pointedly. “And you’re right. If they think we’ve got even a little whiff of their scheme, they’ll send the mole so far back under we’ll never know he existed.”
“As a last resort,” Coblehill interjected, “we’ll leak the information about the woman to the papers and brew up a scandal for Pritman. It’s got all the ingredients: A woman found in a frozen lake, her body mutilated, her fiancé the number two man on a United States Senator’s staff...”
The President looked down at the back of his right hand and studied an old jagged purple scar. “I’d prefer not. Those things have a way of coming back at you. Give me your best guess. I want the name.”
Again, Axelrod and Coblehill exchanged glances before Axelrod said, “If I had to choose right now, I’d say it’s Pritman’s number two man, Steven Morrisy. Everything points to him, all the way down the line.”
“Morrisy? Good Christ man, how the hell can someone who’s been through what he has do this to us now?”
“Sir, you know—”
“All too well. I also know that this situation cannot be allowed to continue.” Standing, the president looked at the men who rose respectfully with him. “I want to thank both of you for clearing my staff. It means a lot to me, having my trust in them justified.”
The president walked ponderously to the door, put his hand on the brass knob, and paused. He turned back to the two directors. His eyes were hard. “Use whatever methods you deem appropriate, but put an end to it. I want you to get that bastard! For me, personally!”
Chapter Seven
Steven woke with a headache. He pressed his palms to his head to push back the incessant throbbing in his skull. It was only when he sat up that he realized he’d fallen asleep on the couch.
He remembered returning from the lake, sitting on the couch, and suddenly feeling so physically drained that he hadn’t been able to summon enough energy to go into his bedroom. He’d lain back on the couch but hadn’t been able to fall asleep.
He’d called the hospital around three. The duty nurse had said that Ellie’s condition was still stable. Sometime after that, his mental circuits shut down. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
With a low groan, he looked at the clock. It was seven-ten.
He was groggy. His bladder was full. Before going to the bathroom, he called the hospital and learned that Ellie’s status had not changed.
In the bathroom, he peered at his reflection in the vanity. Strained lines bracketing his mouth; and the two days of whiskers accenting the dark half-moons beneath his eyes didn’t help make him feel better.
He showered, shaved, and donned fresh clothes. Twenty minutes later, the throbbing in his head had settled into a dull ache centered behind his eyes.
He made coffee and then stuck his head into the second bedroom. Savak was lying in bed, his eyes open. “Coffee’s on.”
Savak sat up, wiping at his eyes. “How you doing?”
“Okay. I called the hospital. Ellie’s stable, no changes. I left a clean towel out.”
When Savak stood, Steven stared at the scars on his upper torso. “You’d think after all this time they’d be gone.”
When Savak shrugged, Steven left him at the bathroom door, returned to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, went outside. He sat on the porch bench, beneath a partially obscured sun. Steven glanced at the scattered clouds, wondering if it would snow. There hadn’t been a heavy snow in the week he’d been here. He always enjoyed the soft feel of newly fallen snow.
Has it only been twenty-four hours since Arnie’s phone call?
He thought about the lake, and how, if Ellie had made it into the woods, she would be here with him, and not comatose in the hospital.
The sound of a car intruded on his thoughts. A few moments later, a Greyton patrol car crested the hill and turned into his property. Banacek was behind the wheel.
He sipped coffee while waiting for Banacek to park and come up onto the porch.
“Morning, Mr. Morrisy.”
“Morning, Sheriff. Coffee?”
Declining, Banacek said, “Didn’t really expect to see you up this early.”
Steven’s smile went tight. He met the sheriffs open stare, and said, “Then why are you here?”
“I haven’t gotten a whole lot of sleep lately. I’ve been pretty well bothered by what’s happened to Miss Rogers.”
“Welcome to the club. But I have a feeling you didn’t come here looking for a cure for insomnia.”
Banacek chuckled. “No. Mr. Morrisy, what kind of friends do you consider Londrigan and Lomack to be?”
Banacek’s question sent the ache behind his eyes climbing up the decibel scale. He regarded Banacek silently while waiting for the throbbing to pass. “I’ve never thought about it. Comfortable friends. Sam more so than Larry. It’s an old friendship that’s made it through many years. We grew up together, played on the football team together.”
He took another sip of coffee. The steam rising from the cup blocked his sinuses. Then the delayed impact of Banacek’s question registered. His resentment mounted. He looked past Banacek, at the snow-capped mountains. “Sheriff, if you think they’d lie for me, and give me an alibi for the other night, you’re way out of line!”
Banacek lifted his jacket’s fur trimmed collar against the cold January breezes. “I wish to God I was.”
Staring at Banacek, Steven tried to analyze the odd inflection in the sheriff’s voice.
“There’s been another accident.” Banacek looked directly into Steven’s eyes. “Sam Londrigan’s plane crashed last night. Sam and Larry were killed.”
Steven’s vision blurred. The mountain vista became unglued.
“The fuel tanks were full,” the sheriff continued, “the plane exploded when it hit the ground. It took almost fifteen minutes for the first fire truck to get to the scene. There was nothing left of them. They were just...ashes.”
The pounding in Steven’s temples grew louder. “Do they know why the plane crashed?”
“I spoke with the Fairmont police, and the FAA. It may take weeks of sifting through the debris to find out the cause of the crash. But it must have been sudden. Londrigan never radioed that he was in trouble.”
Steven stood and went to the railing. “Do you think the crash was an accident?”
Banacek pulled a hard-pack of Camel filters from his pocket. He extracted a cork tipped cigarette and slipped it between his lips, lit it with a disposable butane lighter, and inhaled deeply.
Releasing the smoke, Banacek took the cigarette from his mouth and held it cupped in his hand. The sheriff’s gaze fixed on the cigarette’s tip when he said, “I’ve got no reason not to think it wasn’t an accident, do I, Mr. Morrisy?”
“That depends on whether or not you believe I tried to kill Ellie.”
Banacek nodded. “I’ve been working real hard on that.”
Steven stayed silent, sensing that Banacek had more to say.
“I spent some time last night at the Greyton Standard. I dug out those old stories about you and Savak and Latham. I read every one of them. I learned a lot about you from what was written... more from what wasn’t.” Banacek took another drag of the cigarette. “I think I came away with a good character sketch of you. I learned you’re a damn smart man, Mr. Morrisy. You graduated college cum laude. And, between you and your two friends, you’ve got enough medals for a battalion.
“So, to answer your question, no, I don’t think you tried to kill Miss Rogers. In fact, I’m pretty sure that if you wanted her dead, she wouldn’t be in the hospital now. You don’t survive the kind of war you were in—and not know how to kill someone. I know you’ve had the kind of training that isn’t in the rulebooks. I saw that yesterday, with Blayne.”
“A prosecutor would tear you apart in a courtroom.”
Banacek nodded solemnly. “It has to get that far first.”
“What about Sam and Larry?”
“There’s not much I can do unless the FAA inspector finds evidence that the crash wasn’t an accident.”
“You don’t think it was, do you?” Steven asked, aware that he was forcing the issue.
“It seems a…strange coincidence. Without those men, the case against you is a whole lot stronger, strong enough, in fact, for a prosecutor with an eye toward a big career to consider going for an indictment.”